


Closet Case

by applejuice_motherfucker



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Body Worship, Dirty Talk, Implied Underage, M/M, Pink Panties, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-05
Updated: 2013-07-05
Packaged: 2017-12-17 17:29:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/870110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/applejuice_motherfucker/pseuds/applejuice_motherfucker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A visible panty line is annoying as hell but unfortunately unavoidable in situations and outfits like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Closet Case

**Author's Note:**

> Haven't written in a while so decided to write Dave in panties and Bro fucking him in them :/
> 
> Happy America Day <3

They stretch easily between your pinched fingers; pink, little ruffled frills, and perhaps a little _too_ cliché, but you are a Strider. Your family motto is 'Go Hard or Go Home', and you're never harder than when you're wearing these little bitches.

They slip up your legs like a dream, moulding into place, hugging your hips and pressing your cock tight and deliciously awkwardly into your hip. A little rearrangement and you can already feel yourself breathing that bit quicker, ignoring the pink in your cheeks when you look up at your reflections face, instead pulling the mirror down, angling it so you can turn and observe the way the panties encase your backside. They've grown a little small, perhaps you've grown a little big, who knows. They cut into your cheeks with that dreaded V, the little white line lingering in your skin when you pull them back just a mite to see. You haven't done this in a while, you figure. They must have been missing you.

Stop anthropomorphising the panties, Dave. Stop being a fucking retard. Its weird.

You're taking your time with it today, pacing yourself and savouring each nip and squeeze of them as you move across the room to your bed to pick up your pants. These are new, in contrast to your underwear; box fresh and tight with shop-starch and virginity, not worn and relaxed with love and time, and they resist your legs with a vicious fight, protesting until you can finally zip up and pop the button.

You are slow as you approach the mirror again, perhaps nervous of what you'll see, though you know you won't be that surprised. And you're not. Your hips jut out a little more than expected, but that's not necessarily a bad thing, and the jeans are stretched to tight across your ass that they flatten it a little, but they'll loosen up. They'll learn your body, your curves and flats and angles, your movements. They'll tear and you'll forgive them, and they'll ease to your comfort and hold you securely without stifling you.

The only regrettable thing is the starkly visible line cutting faintly across each cheek. You should have known. VPL is annoying as hell but unfortunately unavoidable in situations and outfits like this. Perhaps you should wear a larger shirt to try and cover up...but the only large ones you have are _his_ , and you don't want to tip him off that you're up to anything. You choose an old but comfortable tshirt, simple and inconspicuous. This is for you only, its private and special, and its an affair you've been running long before you and he ever began your little...thing, whatever it even is.

It had started when you were fifteen and had broken your arm during a strife. Eventually, through his guilt and your incessant complaining, he'd jerked you off, after numerous complaints that it didn't work with your right hand, your left strapped up to your chest. After that he'd continued, 'lending a hand' as you'd teased, though it was often more than a hand, and more often than not it was you touching him.

Not today though; today was all you. The sharp pinch at the crease of your inner thigh shocks you before the comfortable burn sets in, making you shiver and relax a little more. You shift the mirror back into place again, checking your face before moving to leave the room. Absently, you wonder how long you'll last; if you will even leave the house before you've driven yourself crazy enough to rush back into your bedroom to push a hand hard between your legs and hide a moan beneath you pillow. Perhaps Bro will be enough.

He doesn't know about this, thank the fucking lord. If he did you'd know. This is one of the very few things he genuinely has no idea about, which is why you treasure it even more. Even with your...unique relationship, its still exciting to have your own secrets. Perhaps you'll tell him one day. Perhaps he'll discover it. A thrill shakes you, making your hand falter on the door handle. Perhaps he'll discover it today.

It's far from the first time you've done this, worn them out, pretending there's nothing different about you, masking them with your normal clothes and having the occasional, sweet little reminder that yes, they're still there, still touching and hugging and caressing you in all the wrong ways that it drives you mad. You wore them to school once, that was fucking amazing. You had almost gotten caught jerking off in the bathroom.

The hall is empty, lifeless but for a pile of felt and stuffing in the corner by the living room door. You can hear Martha Stewart simpering out from the television, the volume obnoxiously and ironically high. Bro's had a fight with the downstairs neighbour and this is his punishment to them. It's harsher than anything he ever did to you.

When you enter the room he isn't even watching, choosing instead to dick around on the computer, completely oblivious of the pain the voice from the television is causing everyone within a two mile radius. He's a master of his craft, and you can't fault him one bit.

“Hey,” you shout, and he turns, frowning for a second before looking back to the screen.

“Sup kid,” he shouts back, and you grab the remote to turn it the fuck down because fuck this shit. “The fuck you doin', man?” he demands instantly.

“Dude, get the guy back some other way, don't kill me in the damn process,” you say, finally at a normal pitch, tossing the remote to him before walking over to the kitchen. The twist of your hips as you turn bunches the frills at your lower back, making them slide across your skin like a kiss, a sweet little reminder of _I'm still here..._ You shudder, glancing over to see if he's caught you yet. It wouldn't surprise you; he's always observed you closer than anything else, and you've been methodically sloppy with your preparations and display today. Part of you thinks you want him to catch you out. Another part is begging for it. Another dreads it entirely because the way you're going, he'll have you out of them within half an hour. Chill out, relax, breathe. Play your game, take your time. He'll only catch you if you want to be caught.

You're not quite sure how to reassure yourself that you don't want that.

He's hunched over his laptop, grumbling little gripes of 'fucker parked in my damn spot...call me a punk...” and you don't want to think its cute so you turn away and begin the delicate process of extracting a bottle of juice from the fridge.

This is where it gets tricky.

The ways you have to bend and curl, lift your knees, shift your balance, twist your arm just _so..._ You raise a leg, bracing it by the knee against the door of the freezer as you lean forward, extending your torso out and up, shirt lifting about two or so inches. You feel the tight squeeze of your new jeans, wrinkles flattening under the pull, and the panties beneath biting into your skin tightly in protest, constricting you, rubbing you hard as your pelvis lowers to angle back and your centre of balance is brought higher. You hold back a moan, letting your eyes fall shut at the feeling of the ruffles at the front pressing close against your cock, growing harder by the minute, and the zipper of the jeans pushing more into that, the drag of it sending an almost terrified shiver down your spine. You feel your breath coming short, you know you're grinding your hips against apparently nothing, curving your ass out like a damn invitation. You have to stop, its getting too much. You need to take it easy or you'll never last.

God damn, you can be such a fucking cock tease...

You curl your fingers around the bottle, tugging gently to release it from its shitty sword prison, relaxing a little as you right yourself, both feet firm on the floor, panties wedged slightly but not entirely uncomfortably so. You don't want to fix it. You like it. And when you cross the room to sink down on the futon, you cant resist brushing a hand lightly underneath your shirt to feel them peeking out from the waist band of your jeans. You bite your lip. They would have been visible when you were bending over the fridge. Bro might have seen. You glance over at him quickly, as discreetly as possible. He's trapped on ebay, bidding for a thirty foot roll of fabric. You are safe. For now.

You are also hard as hell. Sitting has always been an issue in these things, but now it feels as if they'll burst, and you can feel your dick straining against the cotton softness, dampening it just a little as you squirm and try to find a decent and comfortable position. They pinch and lick at your hip bones, cutting deep between your thighs, seams grinding into you and you tug your shirt down, almost ashamed at how much they're affecting you already. Your jeans aren't helping, rudely and obscenely announcing every shift of your body as they drag and shout across the cushions of the futon, and digging into your hips tightly.

He notices.

He looks up, apparently in a bidding war, frowning at you to keep it down because he has the damn nerve to, despite his earlier practices, and you want to flip him off, stick your tongue out, grin at him immaturely. You can't. You shut your eyes and turn your face away. You can feel the red in your skin, burning and flushing your cheeks and your ears, your neck and chest, brow damp as your fingers curl at your side, squeezing your bottle dangerously tight.

“'Matter, kid?” he asks, watching you for a second before looking back down at his battlefield. You shake your head, staring valiantly forward at Martha's muted face as she fucks about in her fake ass kitchen, and she huddles over her oven, a sparkling little curl blooming in your stomach as you picture yourself in the same position and how damn _good_ it'd feel... Keeping your legs and back straight, bending at the waist, your hips curling and your jeans straining with complaint, the press of the frills right against your pubic bone and feeling it bunch up in the back, forcing each line of your ass to stand out. Maybe you'll cook something...you restrain a soft gasp as you shift again, the tip of your cock rubbing up at the waistline of your panties, the stitching pressing in delicately and rubbing slowly down as your hips grind up involuntarily. You're not sure how long you'll last.

He sighs, short, satisfied, sets the laptop aside. He's won his battle, defeated whatever unlucky opponent chose to mess with him in a bidding match. You are uncomfortable and heated on the couch beside him, and his arm moves in a slow, graceful arc over the back, opening himself to you. It's an invitation, an obvious one at that. He's feeling good and wants to share. If you touch him you'll explode.

You sit, frozen despite the heat rolling through you, your chest thumping and brain fuzzing over like a midsummer stroke, and you should melt, ooze across the few inches between you and pour all over him like liquid, let him feel you and discover you and burn into you with kisses and licks and sucks.

You stand, abandoning your drink on the table, figuring you've tormented yourself enough; even just his proximity is a torture, and you move to leave, abscond to your room and grind down into your hand and shiver and curse and hold back your moans until you make a mess and regret it twenty minutes later. You walk in front of him, glance at his face.

He knows.

He has that look of when something catches his eye for the first time. It's the closest to looking surprised he'll ever get.

“Hey now...” he murmurs, and holds a hand out, blocking you from moving forward. Of course he noticed; you've practically been screaming for his attention since you came in the room, slutting all over the kitchen and working yourself up as he sits less than a foot away.

You suppose that, though you may well be a cock tease, you ain't very good at it.

“What's the rush there, cowboy?” he asks and oh god, he hasn't called you that since you were six.

You shake your head, and he presses his hand lightly against your stomach, leading you back into his other arm, and together they hold you still, standing you up in front of him like you're being suspended in mid air. He turns you, facing your back to him and _god damnit..._ runs a hand down your back to tap a the waistband of your pants through your shirt. He's silent and you can still hear him grinning as he breathes, lets out a slow, quiet whistle. You feel your face grow hotter, and shut your eyes against the sound, balling your fists up at your sides.

“These new?” he asks softly, as if he needs to. He wouldn't be making a big deal out of this if he didn't already know the answer. You nod, once, cut yourself short as his hand strokes a little lower, feeling the swell of your ass through the tight and constrictive black denim. You're starting to think that maybe you bought the wrong size. His hand pauses, fingers pressing again just for a moment. He can feel the frills underneath, feel shapes and textures that shouldn't be there, unnatural and unexpected.

He moves you to the side, pulls you down, coaxes you across his lap, your arms folding beneath your head, and you hide in them, pull your shades off and bury your face in the crook of your elbows, your hips raising treacherously to his touch as he runs a finger carefully down the base of your spine. You feel you shirt being pushed up, a breeze dusting your skin as he blows across the small of your back, fingers skittering gently at your waist band. “Well well...what's all this?”

You hate that he can make you moan with a simple few words. You whimper softly into your arms, your lungs demanding fresh, cool air, and you deny them, pressing your face further down. You feel the tips of his fingers disturb the frills poking out of your jeans, soft pink and white clashing with the harsh black and the freckled flush of your skin. You want to wriggle, closer, further, anywhere, just _move_ because he's staying too still and you need _something_ to happen. You didn't last long at all, and you don't care. You need something _now._

“You dressin' up for me, princess?” You groan and want to tell him no, it's not for him, but you don't know how big of a lie it would be. His hand presses firmer down against your ass, pushing into you hard, and a strangled noise escaped you as your cock is pressed tight between his leg and your body, your head raising to breathe and fingers curling, hips grinding down now that they can and you have abandoned all control. You hump against his leg like a fucking dog, chewing your lip, eyes fluttered shut, and he holds your ass down, pressing you further against him, letting you ride it out until you calm down enough for him to tease you again. “That's it, baby...”

He's sitting back, the smug asshole, patting your ass gently with humiliating little encouragements, watching as you hide your face again and moan, long and low, shaking as you lay splayed across his lap. You breathe, stilling yourself, refusing to let him overpower you even though you've already lost. He fingers the rim of your pants again, dips one lower inside to feel the ruffles stretched across your behind, crumpled and crushed under the heavy denim. He hums; you've piqued his interest, and starts to try and push the jeans down.

He uses force, like with everything he does, doesn't think about slowly coaxing them down, or asking you sweetly to do it for him, just grabs and tugs, and in a way you love it. It puts pressure on your cock just in the right way, movements halted from the tightness of the fabric and your hips grinding down against it as it tries to slide lower. He growls, holds you still and flat against his leg, tries again, and you moan, legs spreading to gain purchase for pushing harder against his leg. “Damnit..!”

He smacks you, once, hard, right on the flesh of your cheek, rubbing gently in a minimal apology, the heat already rising through your clothing. You bite your lip and press up against his hand. He swats at your ass again, lighter, bringing his other hand down to push the jeans a little further. Your panties are exposed for what they are now, no more teasing peek-a-boo frills and cutting, hidden shapes. He tugs them, pulls them higher up your back, and you pant, cursing as they drag across your skin, to tight, digging in too much, cutting deep into you and scraping hard and sweet, pressing your dick harder through them and his leg. Your hands scratch at the cushion, his slide beneath and push your jeans lower, all the way until your ass finally pops out in full, and he can see everything.

“Oh...look at you...” he murmurs, and you hate when he does this...talks to you like you're something beautiful to be worshipped and admired, like you've done him a service by wearing something he likes.

Maybe he's just talking to your ass. He probably is, he's done it before.

He taps gently where he struck you before, you jolt and shudder. It's hot, sensitive, the line of the underwear irritating as it cuts into your skin. He licks a finger, spreads it across your cheek and blows, making you whine quietly, your back arching, hips raising. His fingers stroke low, dipping down between your legs and you wriggle, unable to part them for him and desperate to. He picks the fabric from where it's bunched up and wedged in, spreading it to sit taught and proper, stroking his hands everywhere, playing with each little cloud of frills, snapping gently at the strained elastic around your legs, pulling them up and down, mixing your comfort with his mischief. You gasp into your arms, kicking your feet up, toes curling as he strokes and pats you down, rubbing in little circles, pressing fingers down lower then drawing them back to touch you innocently. However innocent this could seem, anyway.

“So, what's this about?” he asks, in that voice he knows you love because whenever he uses it you tell him the truth. You melt a little, crossing your feet, pushing up into his hand, scratching lightly at the futon.

“The skinnies are new...panties ain't,” you mumble. He makes a noise, something between a hum and a groan, snapping the elastic against your ass again, making you jump and shut your eyes.

“When'd you get 'em?”

“F-few years ago...”

“Davie...” he practically purrs, almost affectionate, the sound going straight to your cock and you whine again, pressing it down against his leg. He grips you tight, grabbing handfuls of flesh and squeezing, underwear protesting as it stretches awkwardly and cuts in harder, and you curse because it doesn't hurt, it feels good, and you don't want to take them off yet but you know he's going to.

He does, pulling them down slowly, peeling them back to reveal your marked skin, red in places, white lined in others. He smacks you again, not hard, just enough, and you groan, desperate for him to go further than just fucking _looking_ at it.

He does, which surprises you. You were convinced that he'd spend hours just touching and stroking it, maybe pet it like a cat as he watched tv. You don't want to give him any fucking ideas, though, so you remain silent.

“Damn, kid...” he whispers, moving his hands to part you slowly, a finger rubbing down your crevice to stroke light across your hole, and you want to hold back your pleased little sigh but you can't. You like it too much, want it too much and have done for too long. You're past the point of teasing, you want it _now_.

He draws a hand back, then returns it, a finger, no, thumb, slick with saliva, and presses it gently inside, wiggling carefully. Your back arches and you hiss, raising your head back, legs still trying to part and spread and let him in deeper, but you are caught and restrained, held down by his hands and your own clothing, and you almost want to smile at the irony, but he pushes his thumb deeper, the other fingers of his hand gripping you tight, holding you open as he leans in and watches closely. You're too hot, breathing hard and heavy and you can feel him pressing down, feel him inside you and his breath dragging humid across your skin. He moans, you can hear his bitten lip, his gritted teeth, set jaw, feel the power and the care his hands are full of as they touch you and open you, feel his eyes as he stares, intimate and sharp and unwilling to look away, even as you try and look over your shoulder at him.

“B-Bro...” you sigh. He looks at you, grips you harder, leans over to lick into your mouth, and you cry out when he starts fucking you quickly with his thumb, hands holding you spread. You reach back, try to grip his hair, try to pull him closer, but no dice. He has other plans.

You find yourself on your back, head on the arm of the futon, jeans still biting at your hips at the front, and he rips them off, curses as they slip down your legs, burning your skin, and when you finally get one leg free, you spread yourself open, reaching up and grabbing his collar to yank him harshly down for a kiss. You moan across his tongue, he swears into your mouth, and grinds against you, the pressure of the panties caught on your cock almost unbearable when you can feel his through his pants.

“Please...” you say, hating that he always, _always_ , reduces you to this weak, trembling, begging mess. Hating it and loving it at the same time, because he doesn't even waste time before diving down and licking at you through your frilly underwear, sucking at the little damp spot at your hip. He hooks his fingers underneath, pulling them down to your knees, and growling one of a thousand names he calls you before leaning in and sucking you down, hard. His hands hold you, keeping you open against his face, and you can only pant, whining as you stare at the ceiling in a daze, your fingers knocking his hat off and gripping his hair tight, tugging at his shades.

He looks up at you, eyes burning dangerously as you moan and bite your fingers, raising your legs and hips higher to expose yourself more to him. He seems to appreciate it, pulling back and licking up the underside of your shaft, flicking his tongue against the tip as he smirks at you.

“Want it? You want it, baby?”

You sink back, covering your face as you open to him further, your 'yes' implied, hear his wicked little laugh before feeling his fingers press against you again. Lubrication is poured down into his hand as he touches you, and you moan as he spreads you, pressing two fingers inside and stroking in ripples, twisting and curling, stretching, his tongue brushing the tip of your dick, lips sucking softly.

You try to move your legs, underwear between your knees refusing you go any further, and he pushes the back of your thigh, both legs raising, his fingers still pressing deep inside you as you squirm and writhe back, pushing down against his hand and biting your tongue to stop the pathetic little moans that bubble in your throat, slipping out with harsh gasps and each time he strokes you gently and parts his fingers to stretch you more.

He grunts, hand withdrawn, reaching down to fumble with his belt, stroking himself quickly before you feel the head of his cock pressing against you, and he grips your panties tightly in a fist, using them to push your legs up and back to your chest. He pushes in a little rougher than you expected, leaning down to curse into your mouth as he presses deeper, and you open for him with a whine of his name, his tongue stroking inside you as your arms wrap tight around his neck and you feel his hips meet your own.

He's fast, leaving you no time to moan and plead for him to move, groaning against your tongue, wanting it as much as you do, and he grips your hip with one hand, reaching the other up to tangle the other in your hair. You're stuck, trapped, useless and wailing beneath him as he throws himself into you, biting at his lips and breathing in when he breathes out. Your knees curl up over his shoulders, your fingers claws as they scratch down his neck, your teeth fangs at his throat, and he shouts your name when you bite to muffle a scream.

A hand finds your cock, it takes you a moment to notice that its yours, and he feels it, leaning up, sitting back, gripping your hips and pulling you down onto him to meet his hips each time he slams into you, feral and grinning as he watches you try and cover your face as you stroke yourself, your rhythm flawed and undone.

“Go on, fuckin' go on, baby. C'mon sweetheart, gimme a show, go on...”

You can't hear him, whatever words he says sinking into your bones like syrup, spreading and coating your brain heavily until you can only feel, words, sounds and sights meaningless. You answer him, though you don't know what you say, voice thick in your throat, tongue swollen and your heart jumping each time you feel him twitch inside you.

You come, blinded and crying, feel his teeth at your throat, his shoulders pressing your thighs back, his hands pawing at your ass again, and his cock, his come, inside you as he groans and fucks you through it, harsh breaths painting your skin with each quiver and gasp.

You breathe. You fail. You try again.

It works the third time, like a charm. He's still inside, licking softly at your neck, protective and caring, trying to fix whatever he broke.

You attempt to move and he stops you, pressing a kiss to your lips.

“You good?” he breathes. You nod vaguely.

“Yeah,” you say. You think you do, anyway, you can't be sure. He kisses you again, like the kiss he usually gives you in the morning, light and easy, watching your eyes with a smile.

“Fuckin' panties, dude...” he almost laughs, grinning into your neck again.

“Yeah,” you are inclined to agree. Fuckin' panties.

Fuckin' panties, indeed.


End file.
